


To The End Of The World And Back

by tsauergrass



Series: Prompted [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, M/M, harry is a photographer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: Prompted by @justdyingontheinside on Tumblr: Harry is a photographer and he always takes photos of Draco“Enough,” Draco said, briefly shutting his eyes. Seven years and he was still as pathetic. He started gathering his belongings. “Excuse me, I have to leave.”“I haven’t even started.”“There is nothing for us to talk about.”“There’s plenty, actually.”Draco pushed himself out of the booth. “Oh, shut your—”A warm hand grabbed his wrist. Draco, shocked into silence, stopped. Harry tightened his grasp, firm enough to keep Draco from leaving but gentle enough not to hurt.“Draco.” He swallowed. “Stay.”Harry Potter has returned from his seven-year world tour and is back in London, with a photography exhibition. Draco is not prepared.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Prompted [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1416109
Comments: 21
Kudos: 263





	To The End Of The World And Back

It came as a shock. Harry Potter, rising photographer and charming darling of the photography field, had returned after a seven-year journey that spanned across the globe and was back in London, the first stop in the world tour for his gallery. The seven-year trip had begun right after his university graduation, and now he was one of the youngest photographers to ever had had an international exhibition of his own. The world doted on him; was fascinated and charmed and crazy about him. Award-winning photographers from all over the world complimented his photographs weeks before the exhibition even opened, the praises on the brochure awkward in translation but shining through with pride and awe.

In a way, Draco wasn’t surprised. He had noticed all the signs, as though taking them in from peripheral vision: Weasley’s and Granger’s tweets, a local interview with Ginevra, the brochures flying all over the streets, posters covering blocks and blocks of walls in London as though the sky had fallen in patches. Still it wasn’t until Pansy told him the news during lunch that it hit him full force like a train wreck. For a moment his mind blanked. Then, careful not to show emotions on his face, he picked up the remaining half of his Panini.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” Pansy echoed. She was examining her nails. “What news.”

The silence was labored with building tension. Finally Draco snapped. “It’s been seven years. I’m not—I’m not effected anymore.”

“I didn’t say you were, darling.”

“I’ve changed.”

“I know, darling.”

“I don’t—I don’t fancy him anymore.”

“No,” Pansy agreed, “I’m sure you don’t fancy him.” She squeezed his crumb-covered fingers and pushed herself up from the booth. “Finish your lunch, dear. I’m going to the loo, and then we’re leaving.”

She disappeared into the corridor. Draco finished his Panini—not because Pansy told him to, but because he meant to—and wiped his hands on a napkin, waiting for Pansy. He cleaned his fingers one by one, carefully, taking care of the thin gaps between finger pad and nail.

A figure slid into the seat across from him. Draco raised his head, ready to tell Pansy to—

It was Harry Potter.

They stared at each other. _It is rude not to greet,_ Draco’s mind supplied helpfully. What an opening.

Instead he said, “How much did you pay her?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“How much did you pay Pansy for this?”

Instead of flushing, as he would have done seven years ago, Harry just looked steadily at him. “A week of Starbucks with her drink of choice.”

Draco scoffed. Too cheap; she was better than this.

“Draco.”

“Enough,” Draco said, briefly shutting his eyes. Seven years and he was still as pathetic. He started gathering his belongings. “Excuse me, I have to leave.”

“I haven’t even started.”

“There is nothing for us to talk about.”

“There’s plenty, actually.”

Draco pushed himself out of the booth. “Oh, shut your—”

A warm hand grabbed his wrist. Draco, shocked into silence, stopped. Harry tightened his grasp, firm enough to keep Draco from leaving but gentle enough not to hurt.

“Draco.” He swallowed. “Stay.”

Draco let out a laugh. “Oh, the irony. Seven years ago I said those exact words to you. I should throw your words back in your face.”

“I—”

“Shall we play it out, hmm? Parts reserved? Do you want to beg me the way I begged you? I’ll make it more theatric, I promise. This time I’ll leave right in front of your eyes instead of sneaking away in the middle of the night like a coward. Then again, maybe you enjoyed it, watching me get more and more pathetic until you can kick me off like a stray pup.”

Harry gritted, “Enough.”

“I bet you thought this was a grand plan, didn’t you? Come back and Draco Malfoy will leap right back into your arms like the slut he was. Bet you thought you were going to get a good fuck afterwards, didn’t you?” Draco smiled icily. “Do you still remember? Do you need a reminder, hmm? Near the end you always lost yourself. _Draco, Draco please, please, I can’t—”_

Harry was going to punch him, he could see it in his eyes. Draco raised his chin and braced himself. Instead he was tugged down, violently, which caught him by surprise—and fell back onto the chair with a hard _thud,_ pain exploding in his bum.

“Stop riling me up,” Harry gritted, painfully tugging him close. “That’s not going to work. I’ve changed.”

“Ah,” Draco said. “See, I’ve changed, too. And now I don’t want you anymore.”

A flinch, a dimming in the burning green eyes. It was almost enough for the way his chest tore at the lie.

“If you think coming back will change anything,” Draco continued, “you’re wrong. I’ve moved on.”

Harry stared at him. For seven years Draco had not had the chance to look at him; now he couldn’t help but notice that his hair was longer, his shoulders were broader. His skin was darker, tanned from walking over the world under the sun. Harry looked like a man instead of a boy just out of his teenage years, green and knobby, which was how he had looked when they had first met. Clever, kind, wearing his emotions on his sleeves. Still a little shy. Good, a heart like gold.

Draco still remembered how good Harry was.

“I understand,” Harry said. He loosened his grip on Draco’s wrist. _No, don’t go._ “I suppose you don’t want the invitation. It was my mistake. I won’t try to find you again.”

He slammed a piece of paper onto the table— _blue, blue like the sky had fallen in patches—_ and pushed himself out of the booth, and left.

Draco stared at the empty space in front of him. Then, numbly, insanely, he touched a finger to the paper on the table, clearer than the sky itself.

*

It was a card. An invitation, Harry had said.

The card was smooth, the wide expense of blue softer than the London sky. _To The End Of The World And Back: Photography Exhibition._ Harry was smiling at one corner, his hair ruffled just so—one hand raising the camera in front of his chest.

Draco traced the large, loopy letters, then traced Harry’s face, then traced Harry’s smile.

Harry had written on it. For all that he’d changed, his hand writing was still just as illegible. It was a good thing he could take photos, Draco thought distantly. No one would understand a thing he wrote.

_FREE_. Then, in smaller letters, _show this to the guards, they’ll know._

The exhibition was to last four weeks. Afterwards it would depart to Belgium, to the Netherlands, make a loop around Europe and then head towards Asia.

Draco touched his fingers to the address, the time. Then he touched his fingers to Harry’s smile again.

*

It was even larger than he’d thought it would be.

The gallery was spacious, a whole floor cleared out for the photographs, partitions stationed in the center of halls, between tall walls and wide corridors. The afternoon light streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and flooded the grey walls. Aside from the natural brightness, only small exhibition lights were illuminated, a warm, golden hue reflected off the glass encasing the photographs.

It was quiet. People were wandering at leisure; it was close to the end of the exhibition, and the crowd had dwindled. Here and there, murmured talks and soft gasps of awe echoed in the large space between the walls.

Draco didn’t know where to start.

He had never been to a gallery before. For two hours he had picked his clothes; at last he’d settled on a simple shirt, opened at the collar. It was suitable for summer. The exhibition could be toured in many ways: by continent, by timeline, or by theme. The brochure suggested three different routes, looping around the halls and overlapping, three colors condensing into one.

Draco swallowed and just started with the nearest one.

He would not lie and say he did not know why he was here, but he would be honest and say he did not know what he was doing here. He didn’t know what he expected. Find Harry and then—what? Apologize? Leap back into his arms and wail? Harry might not even be here.

Draco swallowed and walked along the hall. There were pictures of mountains, of seas, of a sky flaring into color; of old houses, a stray cat with its face buried in a can of fish; there were pictures of old men, two middle-aged women with their arms around each other’s waist, young boys grinning and little girls blowing bubbles out of a straw. All the places that Harry had been to; all the people that he had met. They had breathed, briefly, the same air as Harry had breathed. Walked the earth that Harry had walked. Exchanged smiles as Harry would have smiled at them, bright and earnest.

It was suddenly too painful. Draco drew a sharp breath.

Then he saw the photograph.

It took up the whole wall in front of him. A young man, walking along the British coast. He was half in turning, his face hidden, but still there was a hint of a smile in what little visage he showed. His blond hair was bright against the gloomy sky. There was something about the way he held himself, the way his one foot, submerged in the shallow waves, lifted slightly in the motion of turning, that said he was completely at home. That said he was content, perhaps even happy.

_Home,_ said the silver plate underneath. _To which you always return._

“Do you like it?”

Draco turned, dizzy. Harry walked close, closer, and at last stood beside him, looking at the young man in the photograph.

Draco said, “This wasn’t taken on your seven-year tour.”

“No,” Harry agreed.

Seven years ago, their first trip to the beach. Draco had been so happy, that day. He didn’t think it was possible for someone to be this happy. For it to well, for it to brim, for it to spill and to submerge, as gentle as the sea. He had been so young. He hadn’t known it could drown, as well.

“How can you say this,” he asked, touching a finger to the silver plate, “when you are the one who left?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. His voice caught in his throat. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“No. I couldn’t keep you.” It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Draco inhaled deeply. “No one could. You cannot keep a bird that is destined to fly. You had to leave, and I was selfish for wanting to keep you by my side.”

“Draco.”

“And now?” Draco turned, looking at Harry as though for the first time. It hurt to see him, hurt to think that for seven years Harry had laughed and cried and grown into the man standing in front of him, and that he had missed that, that he had not been by his side. “When are you leaving again?”

“I’m not leaving.”

Draco paused. “What?”

“I’ve just come back.” Harry shook his head, turning back to the photograph. “I’m not leaving for a long while.”

“But your gallery. Isn’t it a world—”

“My photos are leaving, not me.” Harry took a deep breath. “I’m tired. Seven years, and I enjoyed every minute of it, but I miss home.” He smiled ruefully at Draco. “There was not a moment that I didn’t miss you. Every place I went, everything I saw, I thought—I thought, if only I could show it to you. If only you could see it now. I wanted to—I guess I thought—I guess I thought that if I came back, then everything would be…”

“Harry.” A whisper.

“God.” Harry shut his eyes. “I missed you calling my name.”

Tentative, dazed, awkward, Draco touched Harry’s arm. Drew him close. A series of steps in a dance that he’d known, that he hadn’t taken in years—folding Harry into his arms, Harry’s face tucked into the nook of his neck. Harry sniffed. He was warm and solid against Draco’s chest, under Draco’s hands, filling a space that had been empty and aching.

“Draco,” he murmured, voice thick and muffled. “Am I too late?”

“No,” Draco whispered. He pressed his mouth to Harry’s hair; his fingers tightened their hold on Harry. “You are just in time.”


End file.
